


Infinity Guardians: The Fix-It

by goldblumesque



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: All-Father Thor, All-Mother Loki, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Loki (Marvel) Lives, Multi, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Grandmaster Is Still A Flamboyant Old Queer, infinity war fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:39:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldblumesque/pseuds/goldblumesque
Summary: Infinity War's first ten minutes aren't canon bye. Asgardians and Assorted Space Babes join The Guardians. They're the next step in this venture to kill off the big purple asshole. I'm unsure of ships as of yet, tags may vary as we go along, I just like building things. I'm winging this, don't @ me.





	1. Easy Up On The Rocks, Big Guy.

  
Power is often a conceit of the mind. Of fate, perhaps, and the realisation of it thereafter. One doesn't have power unless they are willing to acknowledge it, and so far it would seem Thor had been unwilling. Yet in the short hours he could afford any kind of sleep he saw that same vision; lush grasses of the field wherein his father died, the calling of that old voice with such a command. And always it proclaims the same. _You are not the god of----_ And there, his father's call cuts off and he is alone again; awake and shaken in the momentary safety of their rescue ship. Just a dream, he says. Just a dream.

  
Quill isn't present despite foray into space. The confident stride and assurances to his crew that he's _got this_ are upon deaf ears now, crumbled to dust and no soul knows where. It feels empty without him, even to the likes of those that hardly spent time in his company. Not their concern, as Loki had said in some seeming last attempt to wriggle out of harm's way. Still; it merely drives their mission forth.

  
Nebula's distress call had finally reached Terra once Rocket had strayed beyond Wakanda's borders, some day or so after the fight had ended. On a bargaining plea for an Avengers flight ship, he'd lost and instead ventured out to steal parts and debris from vanquished foes. Communicator sent crying its melodic tune (Funky Town. 8-bit Funky Town. Sue him.) Rocket received three words. _On Titan. Help._

  
And now here they are. Aboard a ship secured on a small dust planet, the Bifrost summoned by Thor merely giving them that boost out of Earth's atmosphere. The raccoon in the pilot's seat, his expression grim, and the Valkyrie that sits in co-pilot is surely a departure from sharing such with Quill or Gamora. But for now, it shall do. The rest of them are squeezed into the passenger area behind, not enough seats to go around and so Mantis sits cross-legged on the floor. Loki has not emerged from the depths of the ship and its shelf like bunks for some time, Korg's never-ceasing questioning fraying at his temper.

  
Indeed he is the only one that seeks to greet Thor as he emerges from his own barely caught slumber, The Hulk quite busy with 'bouncing' a small collection of rocks collected on their most recent port planet against the wall opposite him. Irritating, yes, but he's best left entertained for everyone else's sake. A nod toward the Thunderer from Val, and yet she speaks not to him first.

  
"Easy up on the rocks, Big Guy. You blow a hole in this ship and we'll all have something to cry about." Mutterings of agreement come from Korg, matters of sentience notwithstanding in respect of the poor stones, apparently. A swing around in her chair, majestic in it's efficiency, and Val swigs from a large can as she does so. "So, after a little chat, it's probably best plan to find who gave the stones to Thanos in the first place, _if_ we can't find anyone on Titan."

  
"Chat? With who?" Thor's the captain of this mission, is he not? Squint clearly questions it.

  
"Me. Myself. I. Also _the raccoon._ " She answers dryly, and Rocket is slamming the auto-pilot function with clawed hands to turn his chair around too, albeit with less finesse.

  
"Nova Corps had the power stone safe, I took care of that one personally. With like, a minuscule amount of help. We find a survivor from Xandar, we might get some deets. The Collector, too... These things have been in contact with hundreds of folks." he shrugs, small legs kicking a slight likely for emphasis. A turn back in his chair, and Thor inhales as if to ask--- "And for the record, I'm still the captain."

  
"Do you prefer Captain, or Your Majesty?" Korg chimes, Miek peeking around him to join querying conversation with a stuttering chirp. Small stones fall off of him and add to the debris being left around by The Hulk, stones not so sneakily now being retrieved one by one and hidden in a pile out of sight. Rocket merely snorts in reply, leaving Thor aghast at this small betrayal. Still, he supposes, Rabbit is efficient. He'll allow him small courtesy of captain, for he has lost. Lost much. Comfort always lies in controlling one's fate.


	2. Thus Is Fate, He Supposes

He lurks below the main deck for he would rather do so than indulge the company of the Kronan. Reminds of a younger Thor, headily optimistic and asking all those infuriating, pedantic questions. A dimly lit set of barrack bunks is hardly comforting a place when darkness has hardly been a friend. Thanos' power sits on the edge of the trickster's mind like some ghost he'd buried long ago, shrieks he had drowned like kits in a shallow river and a fear he hoped to never sweat out again. Thus is fate, he supposes. Escaping it is futile unless one can bend reality...

 

Corruption of the stones shouldn't suit Loki so easily, and yet there he is knowing he can harness the power of two with the thought burning at the inner wall of his skull. _He hadn't even been aware._ Small orb of energy he tangles in lithe fingers sparks a slight. Mind so warped by violent delirium that he hadn't even known the mind stone had dwelled within that damned sceptre, power at his fingertips, sitting there as if dormant and he had been too blinded to even see it for what it really was Seidr spits from those same palms and ricochets around the dim, grim bunk room. He sits, legs overhanging and grip upon its edge harsh. He could have won. He could _have won._

 

"Hello?"

 

It seems his outburst calls forth some attention, and Loki hardly scrambles to greet it. Tone he's hardly familiar with and so he doesn't much care what they have to think of him. A history too long upon this plane for any man or creature to be able to tear him asunder now; no one quite has that privilege save himself. Or, maybe, a select list that he will never let know they are capable of such. Still, the slight and feeble insect meanders into his line of sight, head bowed somewhat as if she's disallowed at being there. As if she's disallowed in being in most places without good cause or reason, habit that bends her spine in presence of a relative stranger. He's hardly sympathetic, ice gaze upturned to warn. 

 

"Your brother, he says that we are to go to Titan." Mantis coos, a small frown marking her brow. She's come to make some conversation, it might seem, a relative realm of concern once magicks were casting light up the stair-ladder to the passenger deck. Hands fold together in every which way as if they might offer some answer to a puzzle, as per whatever else to say to him. He offers no such help himself save for a steely glare and a steadying shift of weight from one leaning arm to the other. She tries still, a swift inhale to her little mouth. Feels the buzz of that hurt and must so mention it. "You seem upset"

 

"I've no need for empaths." He cuts, tongue like ribbon shears through attempts at knowing, soothing, healing. He has had quite enough of that for one lifetime, and the stoic hum words are offered upon makes quick work of her knowing it. Loki would expect her to shrink, a violet against the tallest of walls, but she does not. Merely frowns harsher, a distaste perhaps for his abruptness yet holds ground. Ponders what she might answer with, and even seems demonstrative. Well, this _will be_ entertaining, won't it?

  
  
He radiates sadness, it pours from him like blood from a welt. Pain, all kinds of sorrow that Mantis knows hardly of the whys and wherefores, but it doesn't escape. Doesn't fall into a vapor or out of existence, but bubbles there like a geyser and has for some long years. Has seen pain such as this turn to spite before, and back to some middle place of control, before back to spite again. She has known celestials and wonders if gods are capable of the same. If Loki has been already... perhaps it would be wise to ask Thor. She makes a note to, if only to better the matter for her own sake. A single nod of her head, for she has perhaps finished her ill-guided mission to assist, yet still hopes some more shall spill from him if she stands by way of his exit.

  
  
Pale gaze twists itself away from Mantis, the Jotun soon sweeping past her in some show of obstinance. He's not to be prodded and analysed and read like a common book, days of such bloodletting for service of others is over. Defiant he will be, even if that means running. Cutting loose and running so fast, so far. Those around him won't be offered reprieve or notice should he decide such, that's for sure. None of them need know, he owes them no life debt. The only one he owes that much is himself. Wasted, thrown away, he deserves it. Will claw it back, tooth and nail. A life for a life, regardless of it being of his own making. Again in the grip of Thanos he finds himself, and preferably would leave it again without losing the other half of dwindling sanity.

 

A dainty hand catches at his arm and seeks to still him. Touch flinches away as quickly as it came, as if empath's abilities are overshot in trying to see his heart.

 

"You are frightened, Loki."

 

A pause, a breath, and the god grants a smile. Petulant and mocking at it's best, sickly at it's worst; for he knows what is still yet to come. An ash-ridden Earth is the least of collective worry and when his brother and the so-called Guardians wake from that slumber will it hit harsh. He could feed them on fables of false hope, he could lie. But he will be kind. He will grant her a proper warning in the least.

  
  
"Oh, _you've no idea._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather heavy chapter with fewer characters, they're all gonna get their time to reflect on previous events but I thought I'd cover Loki first. Comments make the world go round, especially when they're advice--- I haven't written fic in 6 years so help a brother out with any crit.


	3. Not Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's real sad. Don't @ me. We knew this was coming.

It’s a harsh exhale that breaks his silence. Hopeless a sound and hardly matters above the breeze circling the hot wastes of the planet. The vision he’d been shown hours earlier plagued Stark’s mind, how it had all once been so rich and full of life. Now dust, cracked and ruined earth with shallow chasms running through. Empty space, between what had once been. And so he feels just like that empty space, dust had settled over him since. _You should’ve stayed home, kid..._

 

It’s unknown whether pain will cease, soon. If ever. And it’s not for the hole through his middle and the taste of copper in his mouth, for that he’s delirious by now but no. It’s the knowledge that there will be a phone call. Like so many he had ignored in those months before he’d thought Peter even useful, clogging up his answering machine and shoved into wilful ignorance. But it won’t be the kid calling him, or vice versa. It’ll be Happy. It’ll be Ned.

 

_It’ll be May._

 

Tears run hot down the sun-hurt skin of his face. He’s not going anywhere and he doesn’t deserve to. Resigned a little to that fate, at least for now. There’s no way for him to get off this rock, nothing he can puzzle out in his mind. He’s all out of ideas and it doesn’t even kick into that petty want to know. To have a plan. To be better. It’s game over and Tony can’t say he never thought it’d be this way. He’d feared it this way, dying out here, away from everybody. Well, not everybody.

 

She sits some way from him, in her own circle of defeat. Tony’s not tried, actually going to her. Forgive him for saving his strength right now. Her head bowed in contemplation, it seems. She doesn’t cry like him and he finds himself not expecting her to. There is no obligation for it, though perhaps an understanding. She’s lost. And he doesn’t cry for her loss, either. Worlds become small when things are snatched away, shifting to nothing beneath even the desperate grip of your own hands. They care for their own first and compassion to others is extended later, in small ways or tenfold. He’d always thought himself so selfish for that, in formative years.

 

Nebula’s fist hits the ground with a sharp crack, scatter of rocks and dust kicked up. Occurs to her that it might be someone, actually, that she’s throwing around. Rage is doused as if by cold water, shout stuck in her throat as a pitiful sob. Hopeless. A whirring of her metallic joints back in place, displaced by aggression and hard earth, and focus shifts. Stark, coughing, feet away. Humans, pitiful in their needs. And so she goes to him, head still hanging low in swift journey across a self-appointed no man’s land.

 

“You need water.” is all she says, brief explanation before she starts to kick up a large chunk of displaced earth with her feet. Soon she’s on her knees, cybernetic hand clawing at mounds of dry rock, and then a grittier lower layer. Powers through, the act itself seeming almost vengeance. A steady rhythm that garners it’s own pattern of heaving breaths and it’s hardly his place to tell her not to. Stark seems to know it, in his tearful quiet. She’ll keep him alive out of damn spite for her failure.

 

The suit has a filtration system, for when stranded. For space. For anywhere with a less than hospitable climate. Collects condensation, sweat, everything and makes it clean. He scans it’s scattered remains with a forlorn gaze, like it hurts him. Precise eyeline is calculated by Nebula’s gaze, and she too stares over at the smattering of garbage. Temptation to strip it all for parts lingers, old habit of self-improvement. Warped, she now realises. A glance at Stark. He seems to think it significant too, if for nothing than his own pride.

 

Some two feet into the surface of Titan is the hole, and the earth at the sides seems to be damp. Life here after all. If only Thanos had gone digging. It’s another few minutes of crushing away the land at her fingertips, Tony looking on with small marvel in mind at how she’s so advanced in structure. Questions don’t come to him as they usually might and he doesn’t know if they ever will.

 

“Is this absorbent?” His vacant expression lifts for a slight into questioning. Nebula is pointing at his sleeve as she kneels, looming over her handiwork. A nod, sharp and singular. He attempts to rip at it. Blood on his hands, his own, and weak grip from shock make it slip through fingers regardless. Exhale of irritation flutters in his chest, seems to strike a nerve and that nerve strike pain in him. Whether from injury or a bleeding heart, neither of them really know.

 

She takes it upon herself, a section of his sleeve torn up with minimal fuss. Like she’s done this so many times before, survived so many times like this. The trouble of it doesn’t even see a dawn and she endures, survives. He’s never been that way, maybe it’s why he’s letting her take the lead on it. He doesn’t think surviving is for him. She doesn’t dwell, however, as Stark might. Just throws the ball of fabric into the makeshift well and collects up the water now in a dirty puddle at the bottom.

 

“There’s a filtration system, in the suit.” Abrupt, but clear, and he holds a hand to that wound through his middle. She’s trying, and she can’t give you the world, Stark. When Nebula rises out of the small sinking dent into the planet, throwing the wet handful of sleeve at him and she’s soon scouting for parts. Dragging them from feet away and he soon starts to sort, hoping the system survived the thrashing from that big, ugly, purple dickhead. Sounds each syllable of the Titan’s new title out in his head with force, only with one thought following. _Fuck-ing, **die,** thanks._

 

He’s not going. Not today.


End file.
